Page 49 of Dancing With Distraction

“I do love it when you put up a fight, Victoria.”

I shudder at the sound of my name falling from his lips. This excites the sick fucker. I turn to him, realising too late that he’s right in front of me, blocking my escape, and I spit in his face.

“You dirty fucking bitch,” he hisses, wiping his sleeve across his cheek where my spittle landed. “No wonder he didn’t want you. There’s nothing classy about you.” His eyes are stone cold, piercing me through the darkness. “I’m going to make you choke on my cock, give that dirty mouth a reason to spit.” He grips my wrist, squeezing hard. “The way he looked at you tonight, with complete disgust . . . why would you even go to his engagement party? What were you expecting to achieve? Did you think he’d leave her, that stunning piece of arse, for you?” He laughs, cold and angry, and all I can think is, how does he know that? Has he been following me?

“With those repulsive cuts along your breasts and thighs, why would he want anything other than a quick fuck from you? I’ve tainted you for any other man, don’t you see that? You’ll never escape me.” Marcus slaps me around the face, grabbing my hair again and tearing it at the scalp.

He drags me into the kitchen area and reaches for a knife from the block on the side. Panic sets in and my mind races with thoughts. This can’t be it. This can’t be how I die, at the hands of this . . . dirty monster. He’s already had my childhood, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let him end me like this, dying on the floor in this fucking cheap bedsit.

I take a deep breath and then kick the back of his legs. It takes him by surprise, and he releases his death grip on my hair.

I take a step back until I hit the worktop. There’s hardly enough space between us, and he’s still gripping the knife. I eye him warily, and he smirks. “I thought you liked to use a blade, Victoria. I’m just helping you.” He snatches my arm in his grip and slams it on the kitchen worktop, causing me to cry out in surprise. He places himself at an angle that keeps me pinned against the side, and then I feel the tip of the knife against my arm. He scratches my skin, and blood begins dripping onto the floor. When he steps aside, still gripping my arm but allowing me to see his handiwork, I almost vomit. His initials glare back at me, red, sore, and dripping in blood. “Now I’ve branded you, he’ll never look at you again.”

I stare at the blood. It feels as though everything around me slows down, and there’s a loud whooshing sound in my ears. It’s the same sensation I get when I drag the blade over my skin and a calmness follows. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.

I blink the haze away and smile. It confuses him and he frowns, not paying attention as I raise my knee hard and fast. It connects with his balls, causing him to double over in pain, gasping and coughing. I watch the knife drop to the floor, landing by his feet, and I make a split-second decision to swipe the knife off the floor. I stand quickly, rounding my shoulders and pointing the blade at him.

“You know what, Marcus? Fuck you. I’ve played your games for long enough. Get the fuck out!” I shout.

He releases his balls and stands, eyeing me with contempt. Then he laughs, throwing back his head and roaring in amusement. I shake the knife at him. “I said, get the fuck out. I’ve got no problem ending you.”

A sinister grin spreads across his face as he steps towards me, undeterred by the blade. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

He comes closer, arching a brow in a silent dare for me to do it.

My heart is pounding so loudly, I can hardly hear myself think. I raise the knife quickly, holding it towards his throat. I sneer, “Fucking try me.”

He takes another step forward, still with that stupid fucking smirk on his face. “You’re not brave enough, Victoria. Deep down, you love my attention and you want this to happen.”

I shake my head, tears building at the corners of my eyes. I never wanted any of it. Never.

“I fucking hate you,” I whisper, lunging forward.

He grabs at his throat, his eyes wide in panic as he makes a strange gurgling sound. I frown, and that’s when I see blood seeping through his fingers. I’ve cut him.

My frown deepens as I withdraw the knife, staring in amazement at the mess it’s created. I inhale slowly and plunge the knife in again, this time into his stomach. If this bastard is going to die, he’s going to fucking suffer.

I’m not sure how many times I stab at his pathetic body before he slumps on the floor with a thud. I slide down the kitchen cupboards, sobbing uncontrollably. The knife is still firmly in my grasp, and as I look around, I realise I’m sitting in a pool of blood. It’s spreading out around Marcus’s body and running into the creases of the tiles. I stare at my hands, then my arms. I’m covered in his blood, and there’re spray patterns across my body and up the kitchen cupboards.

What the hell have I done?

I drop the knife to the floor, and it clatters, settling amongst the crimson fluid. I rub my bloodied hands over my exhausted face. What the fuck do I do now?

Dmitry. I need Dmitry.

Crawling over to my bag at the front door, I pull out my phone. There’s only one thing I can do, and with shaky hands, I type out the one word he’ll understand.

Me: Distraction

Dmitry

The light pierces through the office window and I groan at the pain it’s causing in my head. I feel like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to it.

Pushing myself to sit upright, I realise I must’ve fallen asleep in my office after my father left. I moan at the empty bottle of whiskey next to me on the desk.

Squinting as the sun beams through the windows, I run my hands through my dishevelled hair. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and I question my decision to stay up drinking alone in my office. My father’s presence and the feeling that everything is falling apart weighed heavily on me last night, and I needed to let loose to forget, even if it was for just one night.

I reach for my phone, making sure I’ve not missed anything important, and find a message from Victoria with just one word—Distraction.

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